After taking a shower and putting away my clean clothes and throwing the dirty ones into the hamper, I started thinking about Jeremiah. Between him working two jobs and going to school, I had to wonder how often I would get to see him. I had always tended to retreat from anything that wasn’t optimal, but with Jeremiah, my brain went immediately into problem-solving mode. I had to see him, so what would it take to make that happen?
My phone chirped, and I saw it was a text from Jeremiah with a picture of a motorcycle in what seemed to me to be far too many pieces.
“Will it live?” I texted back.
“Bite your tongue” came the reply seconds later. “That’s my angel. If it doesn’t make it, I definitely won’t see you for Thanksgiving.”
I opened the FaceTime app immediately.
“Oh”—he smiled at me—“your hair looks good wet.”
I could feel my face get hot. “Listen, don’t flirt with me. This is serious.”
“What is?”
“I want to make something clear. If the bike is dead––”
“Oh dear God,” he moaned.
“If it is,” I stressed to him, “or even if it’s not, I will drive there to get you and then drive you back home. It’s ninety miles, two hours in the car. That’s not a deal-breaker for me.”
“It’s two hours one way.”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh no?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I don’t know, Cam; you’re being awfully accommodating.”
“Perhaps because I want to see you.”
“Are you sure? I’m just a simple guy living a simple life. Might not be sophisticated enough for ya.”
“And yet, scratch the surface and that’s not you at all.”
“You think?” he teased me, the rakish grin firing his eyes.
“You’re not at all simple, and stop pretending that you are.”
He grunted.
“And you really do need to rethink your mode of transportation.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ll need something far more dependable to make the drive on a regular basis.”
“Will I?”
“Yes, you will. I see us driving back and forth quite a bit,” I assured him. “It’s how we’re going to make this work.”
“What is it we’re making work?”
“Us.”
He chuckled. “We’re an us?”
“Are we not?” I challenged, and much to my amazement I wasn’t scared of the question or worried about his answer. I was daring him to contradict me, because of course we were an us, for heaven’s sake.
“Yes,” he agreed hoarsely. “We’re an us.”
“Well then, I have to create a schedule.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’m sorry, are you being snide?”
“No.” His chuckle was low and soft. “A schedule is good.”
“All right, then.” I walked into my office to take a seat at my desk. I put my phone in the stand so he could see me as I turned on my desktop. “Now, what days do you work at The Mission?”
“I like the room, from what I can see of it.”
“Oh, thank you. I like built-in bookshelves, and there’s a window and—wait, let me show you.” I stood, with my phone, and flipped the camera so he could see my cozy office with its heavy rugs and the overstuffed couch with throw pillows and a blanket—where I slept occasionally—the bookshelves with the rolling ladder, and the antique orrery near the window.
“Yeah, that’s a great room, Cam.”
“You can see the rest when you come for Thanksgiving, but right now, I want to talk logistics.”
“Oh yes, sir,” he agreed playfully. “I work Monday, Wednesday, and Friday as a counselor, and I work late at Kingman’s on the other four days.”
“Okay.” I had to work hard to hide my reaction to the revelation that he worked seven days a week, and typed the information into the Excel spreadsheet I had open. “And what days do you go to school?”
“Monday through Thursday, nothing on Friday.”
“All right.”
“May I ask why you’re doing this?”
“Because I realize you don’t have any free time, besides holidays, to see me, so if we’re going to spend time together, I’m going to need to drive to you.”
“And you assume that every moment I have off, I’ll want to spend with you?”
I met his gaze in my phone and jumped without a net. “Yes.”
His smile curled his lip at the corner, and there was a dimple there. “Good. That’s good.”
I was a worrier by nature. I worried about how things sounded, about how they would be received and what would be the outcome of whatever I did or said. I went back and forth, and only spoke or acted after I’d gone through every possible scenario. For whatever reason, that wasn’t happening with Jeremiah. With him—and thus far in